


the breaking of the world

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-17 06:26:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17555087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: Elrond sails a bit further than intended.





	the breaking of the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serenade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenade/gifts).



The ship rocked, and a groaning sound could be heard over the smack of thunder, a crack of lightning. There was screaming, as well, though Elrond could not tell what woke him; it had been a deep sleep, unusual for him, and in waking he did not find himself refreshed, or even alert.

"We might not make it!" someone yelled, a higher voice, clearly frightened, and then a quieter voice, humming.

Another voice. "The way is open to us; this is where Men stop, that is all."

It seemed, almost, that the noise died down, became the absence of noise - eerily silent, weighing heavily, almost tangible in the air.

Elrond slipped back into sleep, into dreams and into the arms of Lórien. 

 

*

 

The halls of Mandos are familiar to him for they often feature in his dreams; he knows them from the the chill in the air, the dull obsidian walls, the infrequently placed braziers with flames barely enough to give off light. They have always been silent, before, but this time it feels more solid, more real. He wishes for a winter robe, because the chill seems bone-deep; the walls feel as if they are closing in on him, their blackness almost seems to absorb anything that is close to them

A brazier flares, the flames soaring and dancing through the air, and he hears screaming, a roar, inhuman and ancient, and the chill touches his fëa.

 

"Was it worth it?" someone says, and he opens his eyes; the chill is gone, and so is the darkness. The walls reflect flame now, a dull orange-yellow light that feels cool and pure and indomitable but for shadows that flit and flicker, alive and laughing, dancing, in the presence of something stronger and more beautiful than their small, contained fires. 

"Was it worth it?" the Elf says again. It is an Elf, a full-blood of the ancient line, present only in fëa, a flame so bright it wards off all. He is familiar, yet not; there may be something familiar in his eyes, grey and endlessly deep, or it may be the way his hair falls, parting to the left and falling wildly, tangled and matted as if just come from war. 

"Was it worth it?" and this time he sounds impatient, short, emphasising _worth_ in an imperious way that is achingly familiar, and it prompts Elrond to really look, to see the burns and dark, seared places where the flames seem to have melted and cooled what was beneath them. 

 

He shakes his head, his own past drawn close to the surface, perhaps drawn the pull of reflection that Mandos demands, or in answer to the question being asked. There is much loss he cannot describe, the words for grief untold still yet to be found after having been ignored for so long. 

 

"You are not like us," he says, the fëa dimming, almost as if willed. "But you are," he says. 

_I see, now_ he says, as if from in Elrond's own head. _Will you show me, if words are not enough?_ And while Elrond is familiar with farspeak, in reaching out his mind and directing his thoughts, this is new to him; it is raw and open, intense in a way that spoke of power lost to Middle-Earth. It is also uncomfortable, for he has long been shielded, and is now without even that, though there is reassurance there in a soft warm touch that glides over each memory as it is brought forward and dismissed before the pain settles.

_Thank you_ , he says, and Elrond feels sadness that is not his own, that threatens to overwhelm him and shatter his own, newly fragile, fëa, before being cut off. He is bereft, then, more alone than he'd ever felt; it seemed as if such sharing, such openness, was natural, and without it he was blind, he was cold and alone.

And he is, for the halls of Mandos are as dark and empty as they had been when he arrived. He huddles near a brazier, longing for warmth and finding none, until he closes his eyes and wills his fëa inward, looking for that meditative space where he could calm his thoughts and regain a semblance of peace.

 

*

 

Elrond is woken by a vague, gentle rocking, or by sunlight, pure pale light undimmed by yellowing leaves and the shelter of stone. The ship is at rest, though he still feels adrift, as unsettled as if he had witnessed his very world splinter around him anew. A gentle breeze greets him as he climbs to the deck, brushing warm air over his skin and ruffling his robes, causing black dust to fly into the air. 

He expects to hear someone jovially chide him for tracking dirt, or not being able to leave all of home behind, but there is nothing. Only his parcels are stacked in the prow, neatly piled and covered, almost as if the others had already disembarked and left him behind; it would explain why the dock was empty and the beach bare but for gulls that softly cried for home, the same sound that had called him at long last. It is his only accompaniment as he gathers his things, lighter than he remembers them being.

 

"I have waited thousands of years to meet you again, my friend," someone says, taking the last of the parcels for himself, from under Elrond's hands. It's a presence familiar, yet not; older than the breaking of the world, weary and old and ageless, unguarded but contained, though turbulence and doubt seemed just out of reach.  
"You won't find your books," he says, just as Elrond realises they are missing, the reason his belongings are so light. "The world is much changed, since the Valar saw fit to bring you to me. But come," he says, as simply as if this were a conversation between friends, one of many reminders to leave the library. "You must be tired, having travelled so far in such little time."

 

It is only when he turns back that Elrond sees his face, no longer wreathed in flame or carved in the agony of war. The paintings did not do him fair justice, though it is perhaps the sunlight that makes his hair shimmer with hints of blue and purple, or the lack of an artist's intent that his eyes are flecked with silver and white.

"Fëanor," he says, and the formal greeting dies before he speaks it, for Fëanor smiles, and embraces him as kin.


End file.
